


Unwind

by battle_cat



Series: Together [25]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Comfort Sex, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Massage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 17:32:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5173013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Furiosa comes back from a trading mission to the Bullet Farm and needs to relax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwind

She looks like a sandstorm when she arrives, fury and menace and power, forehead black, the rest of her painted with desert-dust red and Bullet Farm yellow.

He’s the only one for whom she lets the strain show, the quivering tension wound too tight. He feels it in their brief forehead touch in the garage, a tiny moment just for him among the swirl and clamor of the arriving convoy.

But then there is unloading and inventory and updates on the diplomatic situation to be delivered; entirely too many people and unpredictable noises and more important pulls on her attention, so he retreats to the quiet of her room (he can’t quite think of it as _their room_ , even after nearly a hundred nights spent there) and waits for her.

It’s full dark by the time she’s finished with all her business, and he’s changed into the soft pants he sleeps in (after she finally convinced him that sleeping fully clothed was neither necessary nor practical for someone with one intact set of clothes).

He gets up when she enters, and as soon as she bolts the door behind her he can see the façade drop and the shadows of exhaustion showing all over her body. It hasn’t been an easy trip for her, he knows. Alliances are always just a tiny bit uncertain; the ways of the Citadel without Joe still too untested. It seems surer, sometimes, to rely on her old persona, to depend on fear over trust.

She’s worked so hard to be able to take that armor off that it hurts to put it back on again, even if it’s mostly a performance.

(They had talked about him going with her but she’d ultimately decided against it, saying she wanted to keep his face as unknown there as possible. He thinks forcing them to deal only with her, never allowing them to think she needs protection, is the part she doesn’t say. That is part of the performance too.)

And now she’s standing just inside the doorway, everything in her still coiled for an attack that isn’t coming. He knows the feeling well.

He crosses to her and she lets her forehead fall against his again, and this time there’s no cacophony of War Boys and lift gears around them, and she’s able to run her hand through his hair and along the line of his jaw where his beard is growing out. He keeps a hand cradled on the back of her skull as she closes her eyes for a long moment, breathing him in, willing her hunched shoulders to lower by degrees.

He fetches the bit of washing cloth from next to the water pitcher and wipes the black grease from her forehead, slow and thorough, and she lets him do it, eyes still closed, and then she takes the cloth and wipes away the smudge she left on his forehead.

She unbuckles her prosthetic and he can see the red marks on her skin and the muscles wound up like coiled steel in her back and chest and shoulder. She must have been wearing it constantly. She’s kicking off her boots and peeling off her top and sliding out of her pants, letting everything fall into a pile on the floor, as if she wants to be rid of it all. With her clothes off, he can see every line of tension still humming through her body.

He dips a grease-free bit of cloth into the water pitcher and wipes away the Bullet Farm grit of black powder and sulfur that clings to her skin everywhere it was exposed. She closes her eyes again and sighs, lets him run the damp cloth over her neck, chest, shoulders, arms. The cool water makes her nipples perk up, and…it’s not like he doesn’t notice that, but he wants to do something else for her first.

He guides her with an easy hand on her waist to the stone bench next to the work table, motions for her to sit with her back to him as he settles down straddling the bench behind her.

He runs his hands over her back and shoulders, feeling out where the worst tension lies, giving her time to remember how to trust his touch after days of being on guard. Adrenaline-taut muscles unclench by tiny degrees under his hands, her breath steadying and slowing.

She makes an approving noise deep in her throat when he starts kneading at her shoulders, fingers finding knots and working them loose. She likes the full strength of his hands, and he slides an arm around her shoulders so he can give her more pressure, and it only takes a second for her to relax into having his arm around her. She moans with pure relief when he presses a knuckle into the knot that always forms under her left shoulderblade.

He works on her shoulders until the muscles start to feel more like flesh than steel, grinds the heel of his palm into her lower back, presses out the tension that gathers under her collarbones. His hands on either side of her neck make her shoulders hitch up a little, and he waits for her to unclench again before kneading his thumbs up the back of her neck to the base of her skull. Her head drops forward with a sigh of pleasure, and he can’t resist leaning forward to brush a kiss over the brand.

 

She can feel the exact moment the energy shifts. His tongue finds live nerves between the scars and she makes a soft noise of encouragement without even meaning to.

He runs his nails lightly down her spine, making her shiver, and then his mouth is on the spot behind her ear, a touch of lips and a scratch of beard and a whisper of breath. He slides forward so they’re pressed together, skin against skin, and she wants to wrap herself up in the heat coming off him.

He’s running his hands down her side, over her stomach, while his mouth works down her neck in minuscule degrees, and he's doing everything _so slowly_ , making her focus on one sensation at a time. A warm hand cups her breast, his thumb on her nipple sending sparks through her, and he spends an unbearably long time just doing that, until she's rocking slightly against him, and she can _feel_ herself dripping onto the stone bench between her legs. When she finally has to writhe and moan out a wordless demand for more the insufferable fool _laughs_ ; he knows exactly what he’s doing to her and is enjoying it.

His hand brushes her knee, a warning signal before he hooks her leg back over his, opening her up, his other arm wrapped tightly around her ribs, holding her against him. She can feel his heartbeat and the hard line of his cock against her lower back in equal measure.

He trails his fingers up the inside of her thigh, agonizingly slow, brushes fingertips through her pubic hair until he finally finds heat and wet. She whimpers and he makes a noise in return that’s so... _self-satisfied_ , gods damn him, and she almost wants to smack him but then he slides two fingers inside her and conscious thought scatters.

His fingers are slicking in and out of her, finding wetness and smearing it, rubbing circles over her clit that send pulses straight to her core, and in no time at all she is shaking under his touch, and in the back of her mind she can hear the sounds coming out of her and how _loud_ they are, and she doesn’t care.

His mouth is back on her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, teeth scraping her skin; he knows she likes that and he uses it to devastating effect. His fingers are still working at her, making muscles clench, urging her up, up, and then over the edge in a shuddering, noisy crash.

As soon as she can breathe again she twists to find his mouth, pushing his lips open between gasps for air, curling her half-arm around his neck to pull him against her. Then she’s on her feet, digging a hand into his shoulder when her legs shake, tugging impatiently at the waistband of his pants. He slides them down enough for her to pull his cock out and sink down on him in a single, fluid motion.

He huffs out a breath as she settles on top of him, and she clenches around him, wringing a raw sound out of his throat; two can play at this game of tease.

She rocks her hips against him, grinding, a counter-rhythm to his, but with her thighs over his she can’t quite reach the ground for leverage, has no recourse when he tips her back so that his thrusts hit just the right spot inside her, a hard spike of pleasure with every roll of his hips, until the spikes become a wave and she’s shaking apart all over again in his arms.

She collapses against his chest, sweaty and buzzing with pleasure from head to foot. He must have come somewhere in there; he slides out of her soft and she can feel the mess of both of them dripping out of her onto the bench.

His arms are wrapped warm and secure around her back, and her hand is in his hair, and he leans his forehead against hers once again as they both catch their breath. 

“Better?” he murmurs.

“Mm.” She can’t help smiling. 

He kisses her forehead, and then she lets herself curl against him, buries her face against his neck, feeling loose-limbed and languid and _home_.


End file.
